W00p.

I'm here, despite the fact that my oh so self-destructive mind clearly is fighting against my will to live. Hope, in the most sorrowful times appears for the sake of survival even in the darkest of tunnels, as the shadow recedes light appears to repair and heal even the most severe and dramatic memories. I'm not perfect, nor am I without abilities making me useful. There's a thin line between satisfaction and misery and I am, just like a circus performer using it as a tool of great tricks and breath taking masterpieces, like a spider glancing over the fragile, though still sturdy silk to catch the helpless prey. A tool which happens to be last ingredient for deeds beyond our - especially my - imagination. Though, this is something I yet haven't mastered as the tool in this case is the key to pure happiness. A perfect state of mind. I bring forth my black book of anger and woe, of disbelief and dread. At the same pace as I created its content I will burn it to ashes for this, that once was my burden to bear no longer has the right to ignite every piece of happiness and laughter and disperse the feelings I for so long appreciated.